


the wonder of you

by CanadianSnow (ShelbyCelina)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Baz has a fear of storms, Baz is more awkward, Baz trying to flirt, Childhood Friends, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Bullying, M/M, Minor Angst, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, See notes for potential warnings, Simon is awkward, So much kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyCelina/pseuds/CanadianSnow
Summary: “Baz—" Simon starts, and Baz reprimands himself for thinking of his best friend as lovely (even though he is, even though he has thought so for quite some time.) He shakes his head, raises an eyebrow again, encourages Simon to continue. “Is it weird if I haven’t, ah,” Simon pauses, takes a deep breath. And now Baz stops walking, because Simon is blustering, and as endearing as it may be, he has never liked to see Simon struggle— “I haven’t kissed anyone!” Simon blurts hastily, his cheeks blazing, his hands still tugging mercilessly at his sleeves.Alternatively: 7 times Simon and Baz kiss.Featuring: the colours of the rainbow!Alternatively titled: loving you is a rainbow





	the wonder of you

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> The violet section has references to bullying (sorry, Simon)  
> The blue section has a direct and indirect quote from Carry On  
> The green section has Baz working through some difficult feelings regarding his father  
> The indigo section has some implied sexual content, though it is very mild
> 
> The purple prose in this is intentional. I was trying a thing... it might have worked out? It might be very annoying. I apologize for those who hate nonsensical and gratuitous adjective use.
> 
> The title is from this song: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wonder_of_You. I was listening to the version by Villagers.

**Red — (one)**

The first time they kiss it is dipped in the brutishness of reds. Fiery red; always heated, always bold. Intense in a way that is unforgiving, in a way where you don’t want it to forgive. Red is a surprise, a look that lingers, a heart that beats, a mind that wanders. Red is a dragon’s tail, a devil’s grin, a rose’s thorn. Red is also this: secrets kept, cheeks kissed with a blush, whispers of devotion and adoration.

\--

Blue and grey stare at skin stained crimson, rose, garnet. At knuckles scraped raw, knees worn and rubbed from the unforgiving presence of concrete.

It’s Simon’s blood.

It’s Baz’s fault.

He stares wide-eyed as his best friend shudders, his small shoulders shaking as he tries his hardest not to cry. It’s a wasted effort. Baz doesn’t mind, isn’t bothered by the sight of tears, although he _does_ hate the reminder that his friend can break, isn’t immune to everything in the way Baz would like him to be.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, both for himself and for Simon.

He crouches low to the ground. Simon turns his head, lips trembling as he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but Baz knows what he is thinking, what the tilt of his head means, what the careful curling of his fingers signifies. He has seen it before. Each time Simon lingers by his bedroom door, each time he drags his feet as they round the corner to his flat, each time he asks for one more go at the swings when they meet at the park. He knows what Simon is always too embarrassed to ask of him— to _stay._

Baz resists the urge to tsk, because Simon can be rather thick. He would never leave, least of all when he is sitting with his knees pulled to his body, his chest heaving as he pretends to be fine. His best friend has always been like this; forcing happiness so no one worries about him, so _Baz_ doesn’t worry.

Baz reaches out, touches Simon’s shoulder gently, tries not to frown as he takes in the damaged flesh across his knuckles and knees. Simon notices and pulls on the hem of his shorts, as though he thinks this will make Baz forget he has hurt himself. This time, Baz does _tsk_. He does so as he smacks Simon’s hands away from his shorts before he can cram any more dirt in an open wound.

Baz shakes his head. His best friend can be _utterly_ hopeless at times.

Baz keeps thinking this, keeps distracting his mind from the annoying truth that is hollowing out his stomach into a shell of guilt. _This is his fault._ He never should have challenged Simon to a race. Baz has always been the faster of the two, and Simon has always pushed himself too hard, has always vehemently refused to let Baz win a race easily despite this fact. He is stubborn _and_ clumsy— a lethal combination. Baz curses at himself, because he _really_ should have known better.

Simon takes a deep, shaky breath. He looks back to Baz, his blue eyes watery, a look of fear splashed across his cheeks— fear of asking too much of his best friend. Baz disagrees. Simon is not asking nearly enough of him. He could do more, _would_ do more, if Simon would just let him. When Simon exhales Baz can feel the heat of his breath, can practically taste the sickly-sweet cherry ice-lolly he had been eating before they started running. His tongue is still a vibrant red.

“Does it hurt?” Baz asks.

Simon nods, slowly, as though he doesn’t want to admit that it does.

Baz’s chest aches. Looking at Simon like this makes his heart feel funny, his insides feel like they are pooling restlessly in the depths of his abdomen.

He doesn’t like it, doesn’t understand it. However, he knows how to make Simon hurt less; he knows how to ease the aching in his own heart. (The pooling in his stomach is a mystery for another day.)

Baz leans closer, so close that he can count the freckles that spread across Simon’s nose. He touches his lips gently to Simon’s face, right where his curls dip onto his forehead. His mother used to kiss him like this whenever he was hurt, and it always helped, always seemed to wake some form of magic in him, because for a single, clarifying moment, everything would be calm.

His own kiss is quick, barely a pressure, just enough for Baz to notice that Simon’s skin seems impossibly warm for a human in October, to notice the magic wake inside him again.

He pulls back. Simon’s eyes have gone wide, clear. He is no longer looking at Baz through wet lashes. The red disappears, fades until Baz is only looking at blue.

“Better?” he asks.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches before fully releasing the crooked grin Baz didn’t know he had been waiting to see.

**Violet — (two)**

The second time they kiss it is the curiousness of purple. Subtler and stranger than a red. Bruises, storms, _magicians_ all steal from purple; thieves that work best in the night. Yet purple also lends itself to soft and quiet shadows, delicate flowers, written prose, the whimsy found in the feather-light kisses of eyelashes.

Mostly, purple is never what you expect.

\--

Simon is unusually quiet on the way home.

Baz can’t remember when they started walking to and from school together. He thinks he might have been eight, or at least small enough that Vera was still accompanying him everywhere. He remembers because he would have to prompt her daily to wait at the third stop sign for Simon.

By Baz’s calculations, it has been at _least_ five years of walking together, and in those five years Simon has never been this purposefully quiet. He knows his best friend struggles with words, is often chasing the right words in his head, but Baz also knows Simon is never truly silent.

Baz likes this about him. He likes how Simon’s version of silence fills his chest, how it demands recognition. He likes how it feels against his skin; how when Simon brushes against him, it makes words feel woefully inadequate.  

Baz steals another glance; he feels something sink in his stomach as he waits for Simon to start chewing on the inside of his lip. As he waits for a hand to tug at his curls. As he waits for fingers to begin tapping out the song they had been listening to earlier.

The silence is suffocating, and as a result, Baz initiates the contact Simon normally would. He tries to propel him out of inertia by knocking their shoulders together gently. As he does this he notices that their shoulders don’t quite align anymore. Baz has finally claimed his rightful place as victor in their battle of heights. When they first met, Simon had been the undisputed winner. Baz was ten when he first stole _his_ crown back. Eleven produced a tie that they each refused to acknowledge, though it only lasted a few months. Simon, the goon, hit a growth spurt just before his twelfth birthday, nearly fifteen months ago, and has been holding on as winner ever since.

If it weren’t for the current situation, Baz would be tempted to tease him about losing. As it stands, there is still a deafening silence in Baz’s ears as he takes in his best friend’s profile. Simon looks less soft than a year ago, and Baz is surprised to find he cannot read the subtle pout of his features like he once could. He has no idea when Simon started to keep his expressions so guarded.

It takes another knock of shoulders for Simon to glance at Baz; he arches a dark brow in response.

Something cracks.

Something gives.

Simon licks his lips quickly as he tugs at his sleeves. Which is a relief, if only because the silence is broken. He pulls and pulls on the violet fabric, trying to cover his wrists. It’s no use. Baz wonders if this is last year’s jumper. If Simon forgot to order a new one, because this one seems too tight. He tries to recall how Simon used to look in their school uniform. He frowns; he distinctly remembers the soft fabric used to hang limply off his best friend, used to pool around his wrists, never used to hug him in quite a lovely way.

Baz flushes.

“Baz—" Simon starts, and Baz reprimands himself for thinking of his best friend as lovely (even though he is, even though he has thought so for quite some time.) He shakes his head, raises an eyebrow again, encourages Simon to continue. “Is it weird if I haven’t, ah,” Simon pauses, takes a deep breath. And now Baz stops walking, because Simon is blustering, and as endearing as it may be, he has never liked to see Simon struggle— “I haven’t kissed anyone!” Simon blurts hastily, his cheeks blazing, his hands still tugging mercilessly at his sleeves.

Baz stares at his best friend, completely confused. “What?” he says, his mouth pinched and his throat suddenly very, very dry.

“I mean, is it weird?”

“ _What_?” he asks again, because honestly _what?_ He isn’t sure what to do with the pounding in his ears, isn’t sure why this question makes him feel like an imposter, an imprint of the boy he was before he started to think about the oddly charming asymmetry to Simon's mouth; a thin upper lip resting upon a bottom lip that should be illegal. 

He notices Simon flinch slightly, as though he thinks Baz’s confusion is the same thing as an answer.

Baz sighs, “I mean, why are you asking _me_ this?”

“I trust you,” Simon says without hesitation. The words do something complicated to Baz’s insides; make him feel as though he is swallowing glass, as though a thousand tiny ants are treating his intestines like their own personal tunnel. The words, quite absurdly, feel like whispers of periwinkle against his skin.

_I trust you._

“It’s fine if you haven’t.” (Because it is.) (Preferable even, in Baz’s opinion.)

Simon nods, but his eyebrows remain knit together and his nose remains scrunched. 

“Did something happen today?” Baz asks.

He notices the way Simon darts his eyes to the left, the way he swallows, the way he refuses to let Baz see the blues of his gaze. Before he can open his mouth, Baz cuts him off with a succession of sharp words— “ _Don’t_ bother answering if it’s going to be a lie.”

He is angry now, his grey eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” Simon whispers, his hands finally leaving his sleeves alone to rub the back of his neck. “It’s not important.”

He goes to walk away, but Baz reaches out, fingers finding the soft skin of Simon's wrist. “You wouldn’t have said anything unless it _was_ important.”

Simon looks away again, and Baz hates it. Hates that his best friend seems to be struggling to tell him something when moments ago he so easily spouted off his trust, so easily said something filled to the brim with emotion, something Baz doesn’t think other thirteen year old boys offer to each other so freely.

“Just, some of the boys in class.”

Baz scowls, his heart beating loudly in his ears. “Are they—” he doesn’t know how to ask this. He lets his words hang, tries to keep his voice even.

Simon’s eyes widen, momentarily, before he quiets his features and voice. “No. Not really. Just, you know how they are. Niall was only looking for an excuse to brag at having kissed someone.” He shrugs. “It came out that I haven't.” He tries to laugh, tries to brush off everything he has just said with the sweeping of his free hand, but both the laugh and the gesture fall flat. It is his forced smile that gives it all away. He gazes at Baz like he could break in a second, like his fake smile could split him open and spill every small truth he has been hiding onto the pavement before them.

Suddenly, Baz hates that there are six hours in every day where he doesn’t get to see Simon. Six hours where he doesn’t know what other kids are saying to him, where he doesn’t know if Simon is even speaking. He often doesn’t. Often doesn’t want to risk his stutter coming back, doesn’t want to encourage the words kids have so callously thrown at him before. He hates that every morning he has to watch Simon walk away from him, walk two doors down into unfamiliar territory instead of claiming a desk next to Baz in what should be their shared class. Instead, for six hours each day Baz pretends he isn’t _lonely_ , while Simon pretends he isn’t _alone_.

Baz feels a vile thing surge through his stomach. A nasty whisper that seeks revenge. Because he knows what the _boys_ in Simon’s class did to his notebook just last week. He _saw_ it. And he knows they have done something again, something Simon isn’t telling him.

Baz surveys Simon closely, watches the pull of his lip between his teeth, the chaotic distress of his curls, like he has spent the better part of the day messing with them. He counts the moles across his cheeks, the freckles that smudge across his nose and under his eyes. Baz tries to see what others do, what the boys in his class must.

It takes serious effort, because Baz can’t see anything but loveliness. In the curve of his cheek, in the blue of his eyes, in the bronze of his hair, glittering in the sun like waves. Then Baz catches it, in the way Simon tilts his head, in the way he shrugs, in the way he gives Baz a grin as though the world were good and kind. He sees what others might if they didn’t know what they were looking at.

Simon looks weak.

He isn’t, of course.

Baz knows this.

He feels it every time he looks at Simon. Feels it in the strength of the grip he sometimes bestows on his wrists or shoulders, feels it in the intensity of that blue gaze; stubborn and unyielding.

No, his best friend is brave, tenacious, an absolute nightmare, really. However, no one knows Simon the way Baz does. They assume he is weak, and Simon says nothing to correct them.

Baz _hates_ seeing Simon like this. In a way that makes his throat scratch desperately, makes him want to dig his nails harder into Simon so he can’t leave his side, but also dig his nails into the boys who write cruel words on his notebook.

“What did they really say?” he asks seriously, because Baz _does_ know the boys in Simon’s class. He is bloody _related_ to one of them.

“F-forget it, Baz. I just wanted to know what you thought.” The fake smile is back, and Baz hates it almost as much as he hates these boys.

“Was it Dev?” he asks.

Simon shakes his head but not before looking to his shoes.

Baz tightens his grip on Simon’s wrist.

“It’s really okay,” Simon whispers.

It’s not though. Baz’s anger is back, foolish and loud inside his chest. Why couldn’t Simon have lied? He is certain Dev has never kissed any one either, yet he is also certain that Dev would have told everyone he had. His cousin is a habitual liar. 

His frustration peaks as he stares at Simon.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“What?” Simon tilts his head, frowns slightly as he watches Baz stare at him.

“Why didn’t you lie?” His voice is strangled, not at all how it should be.

And again that damnable shrug is back. “It wouldn’t have mattered. They just would have asked who, and then what?”

“Then you lie again!” Baz hisses.

Simon arches a brow in a practiced sweep he stole from Baz. A gesture that normally causes Baz’s lips to twitch into a smirk, normally causes his insides to soften with fondness. Now, he feels the implication of the arch; _you hate liars_. He sneers, but Simon only rolls his eyes before giving a meaningful look, persistent and challenging. He calls Baz on his bullshit without saying a single bloody word.

“Shut up,” Baz concedes.

Simon smirks, and it releases some of the tension in Baz’s face, until he shrugs _again_ , and then Baz wants to scream at him. “I’m no good at lying,” Simon confesses. It’s sheepish, his blue eyes looking up from under his hair, and _goodness_ Baz likes his face.

“Juniper, Sam, Poppy, Ronan, Siobhan. _See_. It’s just a name. You just had to say _any_ name.”

Simon laughs, his shoulders shaking slightly, “Maybe I’ll ask Penny.”

Something cold grips Baz’s heart. “Ask her _what_?”  

“To kiss me. Get it over with, then I won’t have to lie.”

“That’s a terrible reason to kiss someone. Don’t just _waste_ Bunce’s first kiss,” Baz snaps. Simon gives a snort of disbelief. Baz feels his face heat up, his heart beating harshly against his ribs as though his biggest secret has just been spilled. It is a secret even he can’t unravel the intricacies of, but what he does know is that it involves the rather dashing, aggravating mess of a boy in front of him.  “It should mean something is all,” Baz adds, softer this time, his fingers still around Simon’s wrist.  

“Oi!” Simon shouts abruptly, his voice too loud for how close Baz has gravitated. “I _have_ kissed someone!”

The cold grip is back; this time squeezing so hard Baz feels the heaving of his chest, the rattling of his breath as he inhales and exhales. “Y-you”— he clears his throat— “you have?”

Simon smiles, affection radiating through the gesture; one of the rarest smiles he has to offer. One Baz knows is just for him, because he once tried to count the different smiles Simon gave out. In a single afternoon he counted fifteen. He stopped counting after that, deciding that he didn’t care to notice how Simon smiled at _other_ people. He preferred the ones that he knew were just for him. 

“You should remember _._ ”

“I should?” Baz finds himself scarcely able to speak, seemingly only able to respond with the inane repetition of Simon’s own words. Words that feel like sandpaper in his throat as he tries to keep his voice from trembling.

Simon rolls his eyes. “Yes, it was you I kissed, _numpty_.”  The periwinkle tone is back, soft, soothing, and _lovely_ against the heat of Baz’s skin.

Baz pulls back, takes in the serious expression of Simon’s face, and then laughter bursts from his throat, because surely Simon has lost his mind.

“We have _not_ kissed, _idiot_ ,” Baz says between gasps.

“We _have_.”

Baz racks his brain, delves deep into the vault of his memories. He wouldn’t forget having a first kiss with Simon. He is certain such a memory would haunt his every waking hour.

“When we were kids?” Simon prompts.

Baz shakes his head.

Simon sighs, stamps his foot, which has Baz laughing all over again.

“You kissed me to make me feel better after I fell in the park. _Remember?_ ”

Baz swallows his laugh.

_Oh._

That he _does_ remember.

He turns his head. “Don't be thick.” He has no idea why he won’t admit to this, why he is bothering to lie when he knows Simon can tell. It seems embarrassing to him that at eight he thought kissing his best friend was an appropriate response to a scraped knee. As suspected, he turns his head back to a half-hearted glare that says _cut_ _the crap, Basil_. “That doesn’t count,” he says quickly, dismissively.

Simon leaves his gloating to a simple, triumphant smile. “Why not?”

“Because _I_ kissed _you,_ on the bloody forehead no less. _We_ didn’t kiss. It’s different.”

“Oh.”

All at once, Simon’s movements are silent again. He stares, but he is not chewing his lip, not titling his head, not running a hand along the edge of a sleeve. He is thinking too hard, and Baz can't read his expression, is not sure if he is processing this information positively or negatively. He is impatient, nevertheless he waits for Simon to gather his thoughts, even though being subjected to this silence is agony.

“Baz?” Simon finally says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m still going to count it.”

“That’s stupid.”

Simon frowns, but barges ahead, even though he has already said one embarrassing thing this afternoon. “You said a first kiss should mean something. I like thinking that was mine, because it was with _you_ , and—”

Baz is awful. He knows this. He doesn’t let Simon finish talking, already deciding he doesn’t care to know the rest. All he can hear is Simon's silvery voice saying _'because it was with you' —_ the _you_ breathy, stinging Baz's throat, because it sounded an awful lot like reverence, as though Baz was worthy of such a thing as Simon's first kiss. And he doesn’t want him to have another. He is greedy. He wants this for himself. Wants Simon to take this from him, wants him to have this memory, and wants always to be the name on Simon’s tongue when he is recounting his first kiss.

He leans forward to gently touch Simon’s lips with his own. He is not sure what he is doing, but he isn’t sure it matters. He tries to calm the frantic beating in his heart by clutching the violet fabric covering Simon’s wrist. He nestles his fingers under the sleeve, likes the warmth he finds, likes thinking that when he opens his eyes he will see his skin swathed in a shade so beautiful. He holds himself in place for _one, two, three, four, five_.

He opens his eyes, leans back just enough to take in the pinkness of Simon’s mouth, the flush spreading across his cheeks.

 _Lovely_ , he thinks again.

“There,” Baz whispers, making his voice as soft as the shadows cast by Simon’s eyelashes. It feels like his breath is betraying him, his chest tight and funny as he stares at his best friend, his best friend he has just kissed. “ _Now_ you can count it.”

Simon splutters, pressing his hand to his mouth. Baz blushes, because he knows how warm Simon’s lips are now, knows _exactly_ what his hand must be feeling.

“O-okay,” Simon whispers.

Baz nods and starts walking again, trying not to smile when Simon falls back into step beside him, their shadows a dark violet in the fading light.  

**Yellow — (three)**

The third time they kiss it is nothing but butter-yellows. Gone is the hastiness of a red kiss, the inquisitiveness of purple. Yellow is _warm_ suns — not hot, not burning, instead a flickering warmth that sates you, that fills you completely — it’s glowing lights, crisp leaves brushing against your ankles, peace signs nestled against chests, loyal fingers grasped tight together.

Yellow is soft, to experience ease.

\--

Baz sits straighter in his chair, holds his breath as Simon kisses him again. Kiss isn’t technically the right word, but Baz thinks it all the same. It’s more of a murmur, a faint pressure that Baz feels through too many layers of clothing. He is not even sure Simon means it as a kiss. _Still_ , his heart flutters with each sweep of a pink mouth on the edge of his collar.

He stares at the yellow Graham Thomas roses on the table as his father promises to love someone who is not his mother. The flower arrangements are beautiful, as much as he hates to admit it. If they were regular roses, he might scoff at the colour choice for a wedding. However, this particular yellow— a yellow he has only seen in a Graham Thomas rose— adds a richness to the room that he can’t deny is exquisite.

Almost as exquisite as the shade of bronze currently brushing against his collarbone.

He feels dizzy.

He has spent the better part of three hours inhaling the heavy fragrance of the flower arrangements as a distraction from his burning eyes. It is lingering now, muddling his mind with memories of summers spent with Simon in the vast gardens that surround the Grimm-Pitch property. Gardens that always smelled like fresh tea, like damp earth, like something warm.

Simon leans closer, and Baz realizes Simon smells like this too. That he has always had the faintest hint of Earl Grey hidden in his skin.

Perhaps Simon is making him dizzy.

He takes a deep breath, steadies his lungs so he does not feel the pressure quite so blindly. Simon leans closer still, his exhales hot on his neck. He feels a familiar warm palm slip into his under the table. (And for a moment Baz smirks, because Simon _would_ do this. Would have no reservations of touching Baz like this, with lingering grazes of lips and hands, in front of his very conservative family. The gesture is intimate even without the pretense of a kiss.) Simon hums his response when Baz squeezes his hand with gratitude, silently asking him if he is okay without making it into a _thing_ , without making Baz feel cornered, trapped, as if he has to admit to something he is not sure how to express.

He swallows, hard, still staring at the yellow roses.

It shouldn’t surprise Baz—not anymore, not since he kissed him last year—when the word love pops into his thoughts when he is thinking of Simon. Or perhaps it is less surprise and just more _surprising._ Because before, Simon was just Simon. Now he is _Simon_ , the boy he loves, the boy he wants to kiss again. He is not sure when he started to love Simon like this, as more than a friend, as _more_ in its entirety, but it seems a surprising thing. A wonderful, consuming, impossibly surprising thing.

Simon reaches out his free hand, plucks a rose from the display. He plays with it absently between his fingers as the speeches continue. He strokes at a petal, buries his nose into Baz’s jacket to scratch an itch.

Baz tries so hard not to smile, tries so hard to keep his face neutral as his father’s gaze flicks over to them, as his jaw seems to tick slightly.

Simon presses his mouth against Baz again, sighs, his exhale ruffling Baz’s hair. He places the rose onto his empty plate.

_I’m bored, Baz._

_I’m hungry, Baz._

_I like the yellow, Baz._

_It's okay if you're not okay, Baz._

_I’m here, Baz._

He tells Baz all of this without saying a word. He says it with a sigh, with a brushing of lips in a _kiss that isn’t really a kiss_ , with a gentle squeeze of Baz’s fingers beneath the table.

Suddenly, it seems entirely plausible to Baz that he has always loved this boy.

**Orange — (four)**

Their fourth kiss is orange; a blazing heat, a passion that rivals red, a long filled happiness that rivals yellow.

It puts purple to shame. 

\---

Baz stares at Simon’s mouth. Or, what he thinks is Simon’s mouth. He can’t see. He knows Simon is in front of him though, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, can hear the rattling of his exhales, exhales that seem to match Baz’s own unnaturally strained breathing.

“This is stupid,” Simon whispers.

“Yeah,” Baz agrees, because it is.

“We don’t have to.”

“Obviously not.”

“It’s just a stupid game.”

“Yeah.”

It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation. They have wasted three of their seven minutes letting stale air gather between them, as Simon pulls at his sleeves, and Baz stares at what he assumes is Simon’s mouth.

There is a sliver of light fighting to enter the small space from the bottom of the door. It’s not enough for Baz to see Simon the way he wants to right now, to read the expression on his face, to know what he is really thinking, because it can’t just be _this is stupid_.

The silence consumes them again. Only it is not really a silence. Baz can hear the pounding of his heart, the crinkling of Simon’s shirt as he fidgets, can hear Agatha and Philippa’s muffled singing to the terrible song that started as they entered the closet. There are feet stomping and stumbling, voices shouting, high-pitched laughter and squeals.

It is anything _but_ silent.

Baz, with the brilliance of hindsight, concludes that this might have been a terrible idea.

He has no idea why he didn’t make a fuss, why he didn’t say he should get a re-draw, why he willingly followed Simon into this closet with a litany of whistles following him.  

He nearly laughs.

He knows exactly why. Why his gaze was searching for Simon’s crown of messy curls as he drew a square of paper from an old hat, why his heart rate picked up exponentially when he saw Simon’s name written on it, why he nearly fainted when Simon shrugged, all casual, and gave him that impish grin he so desperately adores.

It has been three years since his first and only _proper_ kiss with Simon, and though he would like to say three years is a very long time to gather his senses, to not make foolish and reckless choices all for the boy stood before him, that would be a rather large lie. Love, as it turns out, makes him a bloody idiot. 

“This is stupid,” Simon starts again.

Before Baz can contribute his part in their stifled script, he feels Simon’s hands around his neck, and then Simon has his thumb against his lips, tracing along their edges as he leans closer, as he finds his mark, as he lowers Baz’s head.  

It is not like when they were thirteen.

It takes Baz a second too long to close his eyes, but reflex kicks in at some point and asks him to _contribute_ to the conversation, a conversation Simon seems very intent on getting right. Submerged in the darkness of the closet, there is a soft, flickering orange behind his eyelids — he thinks it might be his new favourite colour— he focuses on it and gives his body a moment to adjust, a chance to realize that _yes, this is real_.

Simon’s mouth isn’t just warm this time. It is burning, blazing hot as he presses up against Baz until their chests are flush, his fingers gripping at his jawline as he kisses him hard. Simon’s tongue sweeps across his lower lip, and then it’s in his mouth, and Baz is tangling hands in Simon’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, _closer_ , chasing the sunburnt orange flavour that seems to be on his tongue.

Baz can’t breathe.

(He doesn’t mean that poetically, either.)

He really can’t.

He can feel his airways protesting as he refuses to relent, as he refuses to break away from Simon. He makes a strangled sound, panting heavily as Simon growls against him. His tongue and jaw are aching, his pulse pounding under his skin like fire. He can feel Simon’s pulse too, can taste it as he pushes deeper into his mouth, as he kisses him like he is trying to reach the depths of the ocean.

It feels like drowning.

Still, he can’t pull away.

He wants more, wants to feel more, has Simon pinned roughly against the wall, his shirt rucked up, flushed skin brandishing his splayed palms, before he even realizes what he is doing. He wants to taste Simon’s skin, wants to know if his shoulder tastes the same as his hips, wants to know how the hell his mouth can taste like sunburnt orange, like a pyre that has his name written all over it.

It takes a banging on the door for them to stop.

Baz opens his eyes, angry at having to greet the darkness of the closet once more, at having to say goodbye to the oranges that come with kissing Simon.

####  **Blue — (five)**

The fifth time they kiss it is with the sincerity of blue; it is significant, yet understated in the way blue so often is. It’s cooling, soothing to the heated ache of orange. But, it’s necessary, a colour consuming the sky and the stars, flooding the ocean.

It is, quite possibly, a little like Simon’s eyes.

\---

It takes much too long, in Baz’s expert opinion, for them to kiss again.

Baz is hesitant, doesn’t want to assume, isn’t willing to pressure Simon. However, it is getting awkward. He should have seen this coming. Simon is awkward when he _hasn’t_ snogged someone in a closet. Add that in and, well, Simon’s cheeks might be permanently stained that lovely shade of pink. (Which, Baz supposes isn’t all that tragic of a thing.)

He stares at the back of Simon’s head, wonders if he should just kiss him again, no pretense and no buildup, just reach out and _kiss_ him.

Is that allowed?

Would it fix the awkward way Simon keeps trying to avoid touching him? Because that is a new development too, but not one Baz particularly cares for.

Is Simon his boyfriend?

 _No, don’t be daft_. Snogging in a closest does not a boyfriend make. Though, really, it should. (Once again, in Baz’s expert opinion.)

He risks another glance at Simon, who has been working on a puzzle for forty-five minutes straight. This is as miraculous to Baz as having been snogged senseless a week prior. It seems impossible to him that anyone, least of all _Simon—attention span of a newt—Snow_ , could have a true fondness for a task this tedious.

He leans his head on the back of his sofa, reaching for the book he had been reading before Simon came over.

“You said we could do a puzzle,” comes a quiet voice. Baz looks over, but still finds Simon’s head dipped, his tongue poking between his teeth as he sorts pieces into what he _thinks_ are matching shades of blue.

Baz shakes his head. “I said _you_ could do a puzzle, which you haven’t even started yet.”

He tries to open his book again, but Simon kicks a foot out to him. “You can read when I’m not here.”

Baz wants to tell Simon that he can puzzle when he is not at his house but stops himself. He realizes that might not actually be true. He holds his tongue and regrets agreeing to spending his afternoon this way, until he watches Simon grin to himself at finding the perfect piece, and then he questions why they don’t do this all the bloody time.

Still, he is bored. Restless. Desperate to touch Simon in a way that would be alarming if it hadn’t been a near constant feeling for the past two years. A feeling that has amplified in the seven days since learning the noise Simon makes in his throat when he kisses, how the seam of his lips part, how the inside of his mouth tastes.

Baz lays down on his stomach; his right leg flush with Simon’s left. It is hardly a new sensation, they have always sat closer than strictly necessary. He watches the smile spread on Simon’s lips anyway. (It is even better this close up, even more breathtaking.) And then Simon looks at him through his hair, and Baz feels an ache in his chest. He presses his leg a little harder and is pleased to see that lovely pink creep back up Simon’s neck. He considers leaning over to taste it. Instead, he takes a puzzle piece from one of the sorted piles. Simon frowns, and Baz wants to taste this too.

(He's disturbed. Ask anyone.)

“It doesn’t match,” Baz offers as a way of explanation.

Simon shakes his head. He reaches for the piece in Baz’s hand and tries to take it back. Baz raises his eyebrow, holds his hand slightly further away so Simon has to inch ever closer.

He is nothing if not subtle.

“It _belongs_ in this pile,” Simon says, frustration causing his voice to form a growl. Baz is concerned his best friend might be colour blind and tells him as much. Simon rolls his eyes, taps the lid of the box the puzzle came in as though this clarifies anything.

The completed puzzle is an image of the sky, and Baz has no bloody idea why someone would willingly subject themselves to a puzzle with one thousand pieces of blue. “It _still_ doesn’t match,” he says.

Simon groans. “The blue isn’t supposed to be the same. _Look_. This section is slightly darker, but then it fades, so _this_ "—he wrestles the piece from Baz’s fingers— “belongs here.”

“Whatever,” Baz retaliates, because he has nothing clever to say to his best friend who just bested him in a game of observation and _puzzling_.

(Good grief.)

Simon rolls on his back, props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Baz better. He can tell his thin _whatever_ will not be excused so easily. Simon tilts his head with a mischievous curve to his lips. “Is that best you can do?” he asks.

It is disgustingly charming.

Baz smirks. “Puzzles are _stupid_.”

“Now you’re just being rude.”

Baz sits up, scoots closer so his knees touch Simon’s hip. “Why do you like them so much?”

Simon sits up properly too, crosses his legs, shrugs in a way that means he is not going to answer. “I can do this later.”

Simon is a master at changing the topic, though unfortunately for him, Baz is even better at calling him on it. He consider this, considers steering the conversation back to puzzles, to why Simon has a fondness for them, but at the last second he goes another way; flirty banter. How hard could it possibly be? Baz has seen Simon flirt with a bloody cushion.

"What should we do instead?" he asks, voice drawling, licking his lips as he takes in the lines of Simon’s body in what he considers to be a bloody good show of want.

Simon doesn't seem to notice. He picks at the edge of a puzzle piece. "I don't know, something else. Whatever you want."

Baz thinks it is probably unwise of Simon to leave the _else_ of their new activity to his discretion, but he knows he doesn’t want to waste hours pressing pieces of blue cardboard together, so he doesn't bother pointing this out. Besides, it would be counterproductive to his pursuit of flirty banter. Especially considering he would be quite content to just sit and be subjected to the intense scrutiny of Simon’s gaze. (A shade of blue, in his studied opinion, that is significantly better than the thousand shades currently scattered on the floor around them.)

" _Anything_?" he asks, then immediately cringes. He knows his voice is too obviously low. The husky warmth he was going for turning into more of an irritated scratch. He hopes Simon has the wits to catch on anyway.

"What's wrong with your voice?"

Baz silently curses. It appears wits are absent today.

"Nothing"— he clears his throat for emphasis and tries again— "so, whatever I want?" He knows he misses the mark for casual by about a mile, and the mark for flirtatious banter by about thirty.

Simon frowns, a little line of thought between his brows. "Are you feeling quite well? I _said_ whatever you want, I know you find puzzles boring."

Baz panics, voice caught somewhere in his stupid, traitorous throat, because he has somehow managed to make Simon think he is both unwell _and_ bored. But, by some miracle, Simon doesn't seem to be looking for an actual answer to his question. He turns slightly, so his knees are pressed to Baz’s, and Baz is determined to not let such contact go to waste.

"Hey," he whispers.

And Simon's attention is finally on him, which he did not think would be so bloody hard to achieve when his only competition is a puzzle. 

He grins, which is really more of a smirk, really more of an invitation.

Simon's answering blush has Baz convinced he is not reading this wrong. He steadies his breathing as he moves forward, moves as Simon’s legs naturally uncross to let him sit between them, as his knees bracket his torso, and now he is alarmingly close to this boy he has not kissed in seven excruciating days.

Simon watches all this happen with a careful gaze. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows instead of using words. It makes Baz want to do many indecent things. He settles for reaching out a hand to Simon’s chin, to gripping it so he can tilt Simon’s face toward his. He settles for leaning forward, to ghosting his lips across a mouth that is not his own. His heart responds with a kick at the gentle touch, a heat spreading through his body. He didn't think it was possible to burn quite so severely at a touch so light. He is convinced there will be smudges like ash across his lips and fingers when he pulls away.

“ _Baz_ ,” Simon whispers. “What is this?”

Baz doesn’t understand the question, so he chooses to ignore it. He leans closer again, desperate to test his theory of smudges in the exhales of Simon's breath. Simon seems to have other plans. He holds up a hand, pressing the pads of his fingers into his chest, a gesture that is unintentionally dastardly.

“You can’t just kiss me,” Simon says.

Baz has thought about Simon almost constantly since their seven minutes in that closet. He has imagined conversations, confessions— of how badly he wants this boy in front of him, of how badly he is wanted in return— and yes, _more_ kissing. A lot more kissing. He has imagined a million different scenarios for them now that they have kissed. Only none of them started with Simon saying _you can’t just kiss me_.

He leans back, fingers curling against his thighs. “Why not?” he demands, and this is not what he wants to say. He doesn’t want to sound so childish. Because of course he can’t just kiss someone whenever he bloody well pleases.

Simon looks down. “You said it should mean something.”

Baz releases an exhale from between his teeth, his patience long fucking gone at having to watch a blue puzzle being sorted for nearly an hour. “And you said it _would_ with me”—before Baz can help it, he has his lips curled in a sneer— "changed your mind then, _Snow_?”

Simon tugs at the edge of his sleeve. “ _No_ , that’s the problem.”

Baz takes it back, now his patience is gone. He runs a hand through his hair. “That doesn't make sense!” he snaps.

He can tell Simon is getting angry now too. The flush in his face goes from pink to red. “ _Jesus_ , Baz—"

" _What_?"

"Would you just _listen_?"

"I —" Baz shuts up when he sees the heat behind Simon's glare.

"It means something to me. Kissing you means _something_ to me”— Baz squints, presses his lips into a tight line, braces for a blow, for the _but_ that is about to follow— “but I don’t want to kiss you if _we_ don’t mean something. If _I_ don’t mean something to you.”

Baz laughs; the sharp and unexpected kind.  

Simon glares harder, it is almost terrifying. He tries to back away but Baz reaches a hand to stop him. He nearly knocks Simon’s forehead. “Sorry,” Baz says, between his manic laughter. “But, you think _you_ don’t mean something to _me_?”

Simon shrugs, and the casual dismissiveness drives Baz mental. “I don’t know if I do.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Baz says, evenly.

"What is this? What are we?”

" _Seriously_?"

" _Yes_ ," Simon growls.

Only it is not quite his usual growl, which catches Baz's attention. He notes there is genuine worry in Simon's eyes, doubt falling across his face like a particularly nasty shadow. 

 _Oh_.

Baz feels like he might be the biggest idiot, or perhaps Simon is. Perhaps they both are. “Is that what this is about? You need me to say it?"

"Don't be an arse."

"I'm not, well, not right now. I thought I was being rather obvious?"

"You _weren't_." Simon's pout is a very near thing."Not to me. You know I'm not good at... reading these types of things. I thought you might be taking the piss."

Baz did not expect this, though he should have. He feels a heavy weight on his heart at having Simon think he was having a laugh, using him for a bit of a roll around. He could make a long, serious speech, but that isn't how they work, isn't how he works. He is, after all, a bit of an ass, though he suspects Simon might like this about him. Instead, he leans closer with a knowing grin on his face, voice lowering to a conspiratorial, teasing lilt. "I could make a declaration if it would please you? Perhaps I could get on one knee?”

It is as good as a promise. As momentous as a long, serious speech.

Simon's answering grin is wolfish and wicked, replacing his almost pout. “You don’t need to get on a knee,” he quips. “I would accept a declaration while sitting.”

“How _magnanimous_ of you.”

“Is that your declaration?” Simon asks. “It’s a bit rubbish.” 

Baz bristles in frustration despite having started this.

 _He was getting there_. 

“You interrupted,” Baz accuses, before dropping the bite from his tone. “Look. _Look at me_. I don’t want to have to say this all the time. It’s the sort of thing that’s supposed to go poetically unsaid.”

Simon snorts.

Baz makes his voice even softer as a response. “It means something to me too, all right? _You_ mean something to me.”

Simon licks his lips, his eyes dropping to Baz’s mouth.

“Yeah?”

Baz nods. He leaves his _of course_ and _you always have_ unspoken.

Simon leans forward, a tentative, trembling hand reaching to Baz’s jaw, fingers brushing a strand of hair from his face, a thumb pressing gently to his bottom lip. All Baz can think of is the last time Simon touched his mouth like this.

 _Kiss me,_ Baz thinks.

_Kiss me._

_Kiss me._

“ _Basil_ ,” Simon whispers.

And it might be better than kissing.

Baz’s eyes widen, his pulse quickens.

He wants to taste his name being said like that. Wants to taste the warmth, the whisper, the promise. Wants to pour everything he has, everything he feels into the mouth of this boy.

“This scares me,” Simon adds. “ _You_ scare me.”

Baz thinks this is ridiculous, that if Simon had been paying an ounce of attention he would know how deeply Baz adores him, how little he has to fear with him.

“Why?”

“Because I want so much with you. I’m worried it’s too much.”

Baz takes Simon’s hand, draws his fingers to his mouth, places a soft kiss against his knuckles, then his wrist. “What do you want, Simon?” he asks.

Simon swallows, loud in the quiet of Baz’s breath against his skin. “To be your boyfriend.”

“Okay.”

“Okay _what_?” Simon clarifies, practical in a way he normally is not.

Baz laughs, very gently, uncharacteristically soft. He feels ridiculous, though that isn't necessarily a terrible thing to feel. “Okay, I want you to be my boyfriend, _idiot_.”

Simon’s response is a grin he tries to hide, a blush that gives it all away. His gaze is intense, unyielding. There are no words whispered, inadequate as they are. It is just this: blue, blue, _blue_ , as Baz’s heartbeat disappears with the feeling of Simon’s mouth against his.

####  **Green — (six)**

When they kiss for the sixth time, it is with the duplicity of green; a colour found in polar opposites. Green is blind ambition, jealousy, greed. Tumultuous things that slosh inside us uncomfortably. But green is a creator; it makes us clever humans, conscientious dreamers, living and breathing forests.

It is to be filled with hope.

\---

Baz should have known he would somehow ruin the ridiculous, giddy feeling in his chest at having Simon Snow for a boyfriend. He just thought it would take more than a day, he had given himself slightly more credit. But it is barely thirty-six hours later and he flinches as Simon reaches for his hand in public. He doesn’t mean to. It’s not like he doesn’t want to hold his bloody boyfriend’s hand. It’s just that he keeps seeing his father’s tight expression at the most inopportune times.

Baz isn’t sure how, because he has never brought it up, but his father knows he is gay. They don’t talk about it, which Baz thought was a preferable approach, but is now realizing has been rather damning. Because while his father has never expressed disappointment, he has also never openly _supported_ him.

So he flinches, and Simon notices, and it pains Baz on a molecular level to watch his face fall as he withdraws his hand, as he gives him a crushing look when he refuses to acknowledge what has transpired.

_Like father like son._

It’s a realization that burdens Baz with a heavy feeling in his stomach, which distracts him completely from the warmth of Simon’s body pressed tightly next to his as they walk home.

The second time Baz flinches—not even ten minutes later as Simon leans over to brush his cheek—Simon asks him if he is embarrassed of him.

He’s not.

“Then what?” Simon asks.

And Baz has no idea how to tell him the truth, because he has no idea what the hell the truth is.

“Does it bother you?” Simon tries, his face flushed, from cold or frustration, Baz isn’t sure.

“What?”

“ _This_?”

And Baz says yes, because _this_ doesn’t clarify anything, could mean anything. _This_ could be public displays of affection, which if Baz thinks about it he may not be so keen on. _This_ could be a _tolerant_ society not being anything to brag about, because tolerance suggests something is unpleasant in the first place. _This_ could be the bloody cold weather.

“Oh.”

“You asked,” Baz points out, childishly.

“I did,” Simon says, slowly, carefully. “Sorry for _bothering_ you.” And this is less slow, less careful, his temper flaring in the heated lick of his words.

Baz gives him a surprised look, wants to tell him he has misunderstood, because _he_ doesn’t bother him. Simon walks away as Baz goes to open his mouth, as he absently and half-heartedly reaches for thin air.

It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t know what he would have said anyway.  

\---

They don’t speak for four excruciating days.

Four days of sitting in class watching Simon tap a pen to his mouth, watching Simon run a hand through his hair, of being jealous of a pen and a hand.

Four days of eyes catching, of gazes lingering, of shoulders slumping with an internal battle of to give in or not.

And all Baz can think is: _bother me, Simon._

Baz doesn’t make it past the fourth day. He wanders around the school grounds at lunch until he finds Simon beneath a yew tree, knees tucked to his chest, head titled up to the canopy of branches, expression animated as though holding a conversation.

Baz didn’t account for this when he used to think of dating Simon. Didn’t expect to find a hidden hurt inside himself that would make him hesitate to reach for his boyfriend’s hand in public.

Suddenly, he feels a flash of anger at Simon for making this into something. For not giving him even a second to sort out his own thoughts.

 _Maybe_ Baz is just private.

 _Maybe_ he really doesn’t like public displays of affection.

 _Maybe_ it has nothing to do with Simon bloody Snow for once.

He sighs.  

Maybe he can’t stop seeing his father’s disappointed gaze.

It takes Baz a moment more to realize Simon isn’t alone. That he is looking up because Agatha— _bare legs swinging, hair swishing, sugary grin_ —Wellbelove is sitting on the branch above his head.

The green tinge to his vision is immediate, another unexpected thing; a monster, a snake coiling through him hotly.

Agatha laughs, jumps from the branch, her mane of blonde hair flying wildly in the wind. She sinks down next to Simon, wraps a thick scarf around his flushed neck.

Baz hates her.

It’s irrational, foolish, reckless.

He might just hate how good they look together, how easy, how effortless. He might just hate how no one would pause to gawk if they strolled down the street hand in hand.   

The green snake inside him hisses when Simon’s answering grin to Agatha is coltish. All awkward boyish charm, first crushes and innocence personified.

Baz walks away, not noticing how Simon’s head has turned, how his focus has shifted, how his mouth has opened as though desperately calling a name.

\---

His father enters his room with a tentative knock. They both stare at each other awkwardly; Baz from the tangled mess of his sheets, Malcolm Grimm from a respectable distance. Baz can’t remember the last time his father was in his room. From his expression, the memory isn’t recent for him either. 

“Simon stopped by today,” he says, ever to the point.

Malcolm Grimm is a quiet, practical man. He doesn’t see the value in pleasantries, in small talk. He avoids all conversation that might require emotional energy, or _worse_ , validating something as pedantic as feelings. All of this makes Baz incredibly wary. His father eyes him as he waits for a response, and Baz knows he would rather be back in his study with his books about grains and irrigation systems, or whatever the fuck his father reads for _fun_. Baz makes a non-committal noise of surprise. It is all he can trust himself to do.

“He had some things he wanted to discuss.”

Baz raises a sharp eyebrow but otherwise remains steadfast in what is apparently a recently adopted vow of silence. He can feel his heart rate pick up, wishes he could reach for his phone and ask Simon what the hell this is about.

“Did he say anything to you?” his father asks.

And Baz still doesn’t reply, because if this is a game, he wants to win.

Malcolm sighs and gestures to the edge of Baz’s bed. Baz nods, schools his features before sitting up. He tries to look a little less like he was wallowing, he tries to look a little less young.

“Simon is pansexual,” his father announces, as though he were telling Baz that the sky is blue.

If Baz had been drinking something he would have spit it out, would have been choking comically to fill the ringing in his ears, because the sentence _Simon is pansexual_ is not something he ever expected to hear from his father’s mouth. Instead, Baz remains silent, waits for his father to break first. When he does not, when he is forced to stare at blinking green eyes for longer than he cares to, he replies with an inarticulate grunt. He thinks he might understand why Simon grunts his responses so often.

His father clears his throat. “He had to explain it a bit to me. You know, I’m not as…well, I just don't know as much as I should.”

Baz would like to agree, but he feels that might be pushing his luck. Might steer this conversation directly into the territory he is terrified it will go.

“Basil,” his father says softly. And Baz winces, because it’s _too_ soft, it’s like hearing how his mother used to say his name.

‘What?” he snaps, defences up.

“I think that boy is in love with you.”

Baz watches his father’s face carefully, something he knows to be a wasted effort. As always, Malcolm Grimm’s expression remains annoyingly neutral. For a moment, it is like looking in a mirror; a realization that is comforting and maddening all at once.

“And why would you think that?” Baz asks, voice challenging.

His father looks away, and it feels like a victory.

“Well, for starters he asked what I would think if you two were” —and for the first time in Baz’s life his father stumbles over his words—“dating… or together, or... I don't know how kids phrase it anymore.”

Baz snorts.

His father blinks. “Basil, I don’t—”

“ _That boy_ "—there is a whip-like edge to his words —“is _already_ my boyfriend.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Baz responds incredulously.

“Yes, okay. That’s… okay.”

“So glad it is _okay_ ,” Baz spits.

His father sighs, running a hand down his face, through his white hair. It rumples slightly, no longer slicked back in mob-style fashion. “This is... I-I haven’t ever been very good with expressing—” he pauses, takes a deep breath, and Baz pretends it doesn’t tug at his chest. “Basil, I just want you to be happy, and—”

“And?” Baz says, his voice trembling despite the coolness of his gaze.

“ _Are_ you happy?” he asks concernedly.

Baz considers this. Considers what being happy implies, which is surely an entirely different beast from _happiness._ What answering yes to a question as unpleasant and complex as _are you happy_ even means. Does saying yes mean you are in a constant state of happiness? Because he doesn’t think anyone is ever constantly happy. And does saying no mean you are a liar when you still feel the corners of your mouth flip in a genuine smile? Baz thinks of Simon, of the thrill he feels in his spine when he notices Simon’s quiet grins, of the rapid beating of his pulse when Simon touches his wrist, such a simple thing that leaves him buzzing for hours, leaves him elated and high.

“I’m happy,” he answers. Despite the fact that he still wants and wishes for certain things. Despite the fact that his father is a colder man, not through any purposeful intention, than he would like him to be.

“And Simon? He makes you happy?”

“He's always made me happy,” he says easily, because he has and he doesn’t see the point in lying about it.

He doesn’t catch the flash of his father’s grin. “Good. That’s good.” He clears his throat, gazing at his son, at the features that are every bit Pitch and an expression that is every bit Grimm. “Basil, if you’re happy, I’m happy. If you’re dating Simon, that’s…”

“Okay?” Baz supplies, not entirely unsarcastically.

His father laughs, which sounds more like an exhale, and reaches out to touch his hair in an uncharacteristically paternal gesture. “I like Simon. He’s a nice kid.” 

Baz nods, unable to find the words he wants to properly convey his feelings. Because _this_ is _something_ , something he wasn’t sure he would have; his father hoping for his happiness, even if his happiness is in the form of a disastrous boy with bronze hair and blue eyes.

His father stands, makes his way to the door. He is gone for a moment before he is back again, head popped in his room but body still awkwardly in the hall, knuckles rapping gently against the doorframe. Curiously, his eyes drift to the ceiling. “One more thing, Basil.”

“Yes?”

“No more unsupervised sleepovers.”

They are both blushing when Baz’s door finally closes.

\--

It takes him ten minutes to bike to Simon’s flat. He can’t get there fast enough. Simon opens the door, eyes half-shut, hair a matted mess. He rubs at his eyes, yawns and stretches his hands over his head. There is no time for Baz to chide him for napping like a toddler, no time to appreciate the expanse of skin exposed with the showy way Simon stretches. (Okay, there is a bit of time. Very brief though. He will not be a cliché rendered useless from a bit of exposed hip.)

“You alone?” he asks, peering around Simon’s shoulders.

Simon opens the door wider, allows Baz to step inside as he looks down to his feet. Baz does the same, tries not to laugh at the garish green socks Simon has on.

When he looks back up, Simon is frowning, a soft downturn to his mouth as though he is thinking too much. “Why are you here?” he whispers, throat raspy from sleep.

 “Are you alone?” Baz repeats.

Simon has barely finished nodding when Baz presses him against the wall, traces his mouth hotly along his jaw, his lips, his neck. He doesn’t stop kissing him until they are both breathless, until Simon is entirely flushed, until Baz can scarcely remember that he came here to _talk_. By some miracle he manages to pull back, just enough so he can compose himself, but not enough to stop feeling the heat of Simon’s skin.

Simon gives him a playful grin before settling his hands behind his back against the wall. “ _Hey_ ,” he says, all causal.

“You don’t bother me,” Baz answers, chest and cheeks almost as flushed as Simon’s. " _This_ doesn't bother me."

Simon chews this, literally, his teeth sinking into his lips. Baz has to clutch the hem of his own shirt tightly to keep his mind and hands from wandering.

“Were you jealous?” Simon asks.

Baz huffs, watching as the air moves Simon’s fringe. “ _No_.”

Simon touches Baz’s bottom lip with his thumb, brushes back and forth slowly as though committing the shape to memory. (Baz really wishes he would stop doing this.) (Really wishes he would never stop.)

“You don’t need to be. I’m yours, yeah?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “You’re not a thing.”

“Shut up.” Simon shoves his shoulder lightly. “I’m being romantic and shit.”

“I’m _swooning_.”

Baz can feel Simon’s breath as he laughs.

His knees feel unfairly weak.

He _might_ be swooning.

“Seriously,” Simon whispers. “And, I get it… the hand holding and stuff. We don’t have to. We can take this slow, at your pace. We should have, I don’t know, talked about this?”

Baz takes all of Simon in, feels his throat going tight as he stares. “That’s why I’m here, to talk.”

“We can go slower.”

“A little late.”

Simon frowns, a wrinkle appearing between his brows that Baz sort of likes. “What do you mean?”

“You came to see my father,” he says, voice cracking, though he was trying to make a joke.

Simon swallows, his face flushing all over again. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I know it wasn't really my place. I just wanted—”

Baz surges forward, whispers hungrily against Simon’s open mouth, “ _Thank you_ , you absolute nightmare.”

There is more to say. Something hidden in the way Baz holds onto Simon tightly, something more in the brushing of his lips against his skin, in the press of his nose to his collarbone, in the way his lips seek out the mole over his left eye, the way his lungs cling to his scent.

“ _Simon_ ,” Baz whispers.

And it’s not quite a confession. Not quite everything Baz would like to say. Nevertheless, it seems to carry more meaning than three little words possibly could.

**Indigo (Countless)**

Inevitably, they lose count, and suddenly each kiss seems to be delicately wrapped or carelessly swallowed by something bigger, something more. Their kisses turn to indigo; leave them shaking as they straddle the line of chaos and control, starvation and satiation, gentle and desperate. They feel submerged in a constant storm; hearts hammering as wind and rain breathe against their bare skin, tongues alive with an electric spark.

They discover a rare and beautiful thing; to love so deeply you are left standing on the edge of the universe with another’s heart in your hands.

\--

Baz watches from his window as the sky tries to play him for a fool. He knows better though. He can feel what is brewing in the ache in his bones, the swelling in his lungs, the heavy taste in his mouth.

He tries to focus on the garden below him, on the stones that lay flat against the earth. He rattles off the Latin names of the plants he can see in his head. _Coreopsis tinctoria. Lithops. Impatiens walleriana. Euonymus fortune._ For whatever reason, this always seems to help.

When he finishes, he looks back to a sky transformed. It is no longer a baby blue, instead dark clouds give way to streaks of indigo. He steps back from the window at the first roll of thunder. It feels imposing, too loud in the quiet of his room. 

Baz understands that fears are not meant to be rationale.

He has a sister who has an aversion to porridge based on the texture. Who panics, feels as though her skin is covered in hives, if someone even places a bowl in front of her containing white-grey lumps.

He has a best friend who goes pale whenever someone mentions the ocean. Who has never even been near a large body of water, yet buzzes with a palpable sickness when forced to think too long about it.

He knows their fears are technically unfounded. That Mordelia won’t die if she eats porridge. That Simon can swim, has never lost anyone to the ocean or a lake. But, that isn’t the point of fears. They don’t have to be rational to be real. He would prefer that. A fear of spiders or clowns. A fear unfounded. He doesn’t understand what the hell he is supposed to do with his own fear; something very rationale, something very real.

Another crack sounds and Baz steps further from the window, resists the urge to curl into the blankets on his bed.

Logically, Baz knows he is safe inside his home. Logically, he knows nothing terrible will happen each time it storms. He knows not every night will be like the night that stole his mother. Logic doesn’t always triumph though, and it does nothing to curb the thundering in his heart, nothing to stop the sweat collecting under his shirt, behind the hair at the nape of his neck.

Baz picks up his phone. He knows Simon will be home. Knows he will be sat at his window with the bloody thing open, an itch on his skin to howl into the wind and the rain. He thinks of how beautiful Simon would look in this light, how unfairly lovely the gold in his hair would be, how the dimness would soften out his features. How alive he would seem, blue eyes sparking, skin humming with energy.

He considers calling, but he isn't sure he can muster enough courage to keep his voice steady. He settles for a text instead.

**_Tell me something good._ **

Simon’s response is almost instantaneous.

**I’m on my way to see you**

Baz feels happiness thrum lazily through him as his lips catch on his teeth in a smile. Simon has never, not once, disappointed in the game of telling Baz _something good_. The happiness lasts only as long as it takes for another roll of thunder to sweep through the room. Baz’s chest tightens as he frantically unlocks his phone again. Before he can tell Simon to not bother another text comes through.

**b there soon, too late to turn back  
**

**_Don’t ring the bell. Text when you arrive and I’ll meet you at the kitchen entrance._ **

**and they say chivalry is dead**

**_Ha ha, he types sarcastically._ **

**y don’t I just climb the wall to your window? More romantic than a romp in the kitchen  
**

**_Sod off. And stop texting and biking before you seriously injure someone._ **

**Baz, don’t worry. Ill b fine  
**

_**I meant before you injure someone else. I'm not worried about you.** _

The uneasy feeling in his stomach calls him a liar.

**In case I haven't said it before, u really are the loveliest boyfriend**

_**Stop texting.** _

Part of him is glad Simon can so easily see his fear, can tell he is an anxious mess even through his messages. It is comforting to be known so well. Comforting to read Simon's brazen confidence, knowing full well he will be cautious, if not for himself, then to at least not be a liar when telling Baz he had been careful. It isn't quite enough though. Baz sits at his window with baited breath, still keeps an eye on the deepening shades of blue painted in the sky. He waits for the storm to claim another victim. Waits to be robbed of another person he loves.

It is ten excruciating minutes before his phone chirps with an unassuming _here._ To Baz, it becomes the best word in the English language.

Baz releases his breath, pads quickly down the hall, down the obnoxious staircase that leads to his front foyer, then toward the back of the house to the kitchen and the second entrance meant for staff. His heart does not stop beating erratically until he has yanked Simon inside, until he is staring at his rain soaked hair, his titled grin, his bright eyes, until he has finished assessing him to make sure he is whole and unscathed.

He refrains from pulling Simon into a desperate squeeze. Settles for an awkward clearing of his throat instead, which Simon responds to with a vicious blush that sets Baz’s heartbeat spiraling once more.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this, but what’s with the cloak and dagger act?” Simon asks, voice catching slightly.

Baz points to the hall, where his father’s study is a mere three doors down. “Would you rather spend the evening sitting in the parlour with my father, Daphne, and the gremlins? He wasn’t joking about the no unsupervised sleepovers.”

“As tempting as that is, I think I would rather not lose a staring match with your father while you play the violin in the corner, Daphne tries to sign me up for a summer croquet league, and Mordelia recites the Odyssey.”

Baz grins. “Is that what you think we do in our free time?”

Simon shrugs. “I’m not here to pass judgement on how the wealthy spend their time, Basil.”

Baz laughs. “Your posh accent needs work, you sound like a git.”

“Maybe that’s what I was going for.”

Baz rolls his eyes, but not before grabbing Simon’s hand. “Come on, before one of the ankle bitters appears.” (He wouldn’t put it past his siblings to pop out from behind a curtain, or from inside the pantry. It _has_ happened before.)

Simon leaves damp sock-prints on the floor as he follows Baz through the kitchen, past the foyer, and up the stairs. They don’t speak. It seems unwise to do so, and not just because he is trying to sneak Simon into his room. There is something else, a buzzing in the air Baz can’t quite name. Simon has been inside his room a thousand times. Has walked into his room without invitation. Has slammed the very door he is now closing gently. Has thrown pillows from his bed at him. Has stayed up with Baz until they were both drunk off lack of sleep and slurring out words they thought sounded like poetry.

Simon is as much part of this room as Baz himself.

Yet, he feels strange, uncertain, unbearably tense as they both stand and look around the room as though seeing it for the first time. As though something has changed. Simon focuses his gaze on the painting above Baz’s desk, a garish oil work he didn’t pick for himself, but that his stepmother thought would look nice with the décor. Simon stares at it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I’ll get you something dry to wear,” Baz says, his voice cracking like this is an odd thing for him to offer.

Simon nods, doesn’t give a further response, so Baz steps into his closet.

His fingers shake as he takes a navy jumper from its hanger, his face heats as he selects the trackie bottoms he might as well just give to Simon for how often he wears them and how little Baz does. He cautiously eyes the top drawer of his dresser. They’ve done this before, shared pants in a pinch. It would be stranger to give him the trackie bottoms _without_ pants. He swallows, thinking of how the loose fabric would hug all the parts of his best friend he tries so hard not to think about. Or, used to try. It’s all been a little fuzzy since Simon became not just his best friend but also his boyfriend, since they started kissing in greeting, in parting, when sitting and doing homework because kissing Simon is significantly better than doing maths. His throat goes dry as he adds a pair of his neatly folded grey pants to the pile of clothes in his arms.

He walks slowly back out to his room. Simon is still staring at the painting over his desk, is scrutinizing it with a crease between his brows. Baz clears his throat and is startled by how quickly Simon turns around, is even more startled by the blush that creeps into his face, as if he has been caught, as though he wasn’t thinking about that stupid painting at all. And then Simon looks at him, really _looks_ at him; in a way that is open and exposed, in a way that leaves Baz’s body vibrating.

Baz swallows again, his throat refusing to be anything but dry. He holds out the bundle of clothes, a barrier between Simon’s wet skin and his aching hands. Simon’s blue eyes seem restless, even as they refuse to let go of the greyness of Baz’s own gaze. He takes a step closer, then another, his breathing loud despite the sounds of the rain mercilessly beating against the roof.

Baz’s face flushes when Simon bends to take off his socks, which is entirely stupid, really. _Bloody socks_ , he reminds himself. Yet there is something so intimate about seeing Simon’s bare feet sunk into the plush rug at the foot of his bed.

He isn’t sure how it happens, who moves, who starts what. Somehow Baz finds himself with his hands on the hem of his best friend’s shirt, tugging gently, watching hungrily as Simon lifts his arms, allows Baz to free him from the fabric, allows Baz to trail his hands along the muscles that spread over his ribs. Simon’s breath stutters as Baz’s fingers splay against his skin; the sound is devastating. It causes Baz’s own breath to disappear somewhere deep in his body, causes his lungs to burn, makes him think that this can’t be real, that this moment doesn’t exist at all because time isn’t real. It can’t be. Not when it is giving him something like this. 

It takes Baz another moment to realize that time is real, has progressed, actually. And now his hands have found their way to the soft skin of Simon’s waist without a conscious thought. Worse, his mouth has found its way to Simon’s jaw, his breath loud in his ears as he inhales fresh rain and dampened tea leaves, as he buries his nose against tawny skin until he can pick out a smoky undertone.

Simon’s hands have moved, and this too seems like a miracle or some sort of magic, because how could he want this as much as Baz? How could he be pulling at Baz’s shirt with so much insistence, as though the very fabric has offended him? Baz decides he isn't about to question it, isn't about to interrupt whatever divine _thing_ (be it miracle or magic) has given him Simon. He finds a bead of water at the base of Simon’s throat, follows it eagerly with his tongue, traces along the collarbones he has always thought were too audacious for Simon’s own good. He sinks his fingers deeper into the flesh of Simon’s waist, finds another bead of water to chase under the guise of being incredibly fucking parched.

They don’t speak, until Simon hesitates at the button of Baz’s jeans. He looks at him with darker eyes than usual; a shade of blue Baz isn’t accustomed to seeing, but one he wants to see again, and again, and again.

It’s breathtaking.

 _Simon_ is breathtaking.

“Baz,” he whispers, turning his name to a question. Baz can taste it, can feel the weight of his name on Simon’s tongue. Before he can respond in turn, the sky cracks, a cruel reminder in a soft moment. Baz shuts his eyes tightly to the sound, barely feels the pressure of Simon’s hand against his arm. 

When Baz opens his eyes, it is to a startling blue gaze.

“I’m here,” Simon says. He has moved even closer, and now Baz can feel his voice through his entire body, like a livewire, like the cracking of lightning, the same lightning that insists on trying to steal this night from him, from them.  And then his face is being held, gently, in a way that has Baz trembling. His head is titled, his mouth no longer his own, but he is more than willing to let someone like Simon Snow claim it.

“Is this okay?” It is a murmur, pressed into his own parted lips. Baz can taste the rain. Can taste what he imagines the depths of the ocean would taste like.

“Yes.”

 _It’s always okay_ _with you._

“Are _you_ okay?”

He nods. Thinks the same unspoken answer still applies.

The world fades to an inky indigo sky, to a room filled with pale light, and Baz is terrified still, but in a different way. There is a different tightening in his chest, a different storm beating in his heart. Simon’s body trembles, his hands shake as what feels like waves crash around them, even though there is no ocean. Even though there is nothing here for Simon to fear.

And then there is only this: eager and desperate hands, the feeling of drowning, breath lost in another’s mouth.

Simon falls asleep first, and there are several minutes where Baz watches the careful inhale and exhale of his breathing. There is quietness in his own chest, an aching joy in his heart. When he starts to feel the lull of sleep, he presses his lips to shadows cast by eyelashes and burrows deeper into a warmth he didn’t know he had been starved for.

He doesn’t dream of anything, but he can still see the indigo of the sky long after he shuts his eyes.

He can still see how beautiful Simon looks in a storm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> More notes!
> 
> This fic taught me a valuable lesson: don't use AO3 to save your drafts, folks. I finished this in October, then promptly forgot I had it saved as a draft. To say I was crushed when it was deleted would be an understatement. I had a 6 week old version saved in a Word document, and that was it. I should point out the 6 week old draft was garbage. So, I basically had to re-write the entire thing, which was incredibly disheartening, because I could remember where I had made significant changes but not what the changes actually were (so helpful). Okay, PSA done!
> 
> Also, I know the colours of the rainbow are out of order. Does it bother me? You have no idea. But, that is a story for another time (which mostly just consists of me getting attached to Simon in a violet jumper). 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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